Murder on the Orient Express - Christie Agatha (читать книги онлайн полностью .TXT) 📗

“Magnificent!” said the little doctor with enthusiasm.

The other’s eyes twinkled.

“You think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little like the nonsense.”

“What other explanation can there be?”

“That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence, or what? Are there any other inconsistencies, such as would point to two people being concerned?”

“I think I can say yes. Some of these blows, as I have already said, point to a weakness – a lack of strength or a lack of determination. They are feeble, glancing blows. But this one here – and this one–” Again he pointed. “Great strength was needed for those blows. They have penetrated the muscle.”

“They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?”

“Most certainly.”

“They could not have been delivered by a woman?”

“A young, vigorous, athletic woman might have struck them, especially if she were in the grip of a strong emotion; but it is in my opinion highly unlikely.”

Poirot was silent a moment or two.

The other asked anxiously, “You understand my point?”

“Perfectly,” said Poirot. “The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was a man of great strength – he was feeble – it was a woman – it was a right-handed person – it was a left-handed person. Ah! c’est rigolo, tout ca!” He spoke with sudden anger. “And the victim – what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?”

He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic pistol which Ratchett had shown him the day before.

“Fully loaded, you see,” he said.

They looked round them. Ratchett’s day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. On the small table formed by the lid of the wash basin were various objects. False teeth in a glass of water. Another glass, empty. A bottle of mineral water. A large flask. An ash-tray containing the butt of a cigar and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.

The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.

“Here is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,” he said quietly.

“Drugged?”

“Yes.”

Poirot nodded. He picked up the two matches and scrutinised them carefully.

“You have a clue then?” demanded the little doctor eagerly.

“Those two matches are of different shapes,” said Poirot. “One is flatter than the other. You see?”

“It is the kind you get on the train,” said the doctor. “In paper covers.”

Poirot was feeling in the pockets of Ratchett’s clothing. Presently he pulled out a box of matches. He compared them carefully with the burnt ones.

“The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said. “Let us see if he had also the flatter kind.”

But a further search showed no other matches.

Poirot’s eyes were darting about the compartment. They were bright and sharp like a bird’s. One felt that nothing could escape their scrutiny.

With a little exclamation he bent and picked-up something from the floor.

It was a small square of cambric, very dainty. In the corner was an embroidered initial – H.

“A woman’s handkerchief,” said the doctor. “Our friend the chef de train was right. There is a woman concerned in this.”

“And most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!” said Poirot. “Exactly as it happens in the books and on the films – and to make things even easier for us, it is marked with an initial.”

“What a stroke of luck for us!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Is it not?” said Poirot.

Something in his tone surprised the doctor, but before he could ask for elucidation Poirot had made another dive onto the floor.

This time he held out on the palm of his hand – a pipe-cleaner.

“It is perhaps the property of Mr. Ratchett?” suggested the doctor.

“There was no pipe in any of his pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch.”

“Then it is a clue.”

“Oh! decidedly. And again dropped most conveniently. A masculine clue, this time, you note! One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance. By the way, what have you done with the weapon?”

“There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.”

“I wonder why,” mused Poirot.

“Ah!” The doctor had been delicately exploring the pyjama pockets of the dead man.

“I overlooked this,” he said. “I unbuttoned the jacket and threw it straight back.”

From the breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The case was dented savagely, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.

“You see?” cried Constantine eagerly. “This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my calculations. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one o’clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. Eh bien, here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime.”

“It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible.”

The doctor looked at him curiously. “You will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite understand you.”

“I do not understand myself,” said Poirot. “I understand nothing at all. And, as you perceive, it worries me.”

He sighed and bent over the little table examining the charred fragment of paper. He murmured to himself, “What I need at this moment is an old-fashioned woman’s hat-box.”

Dr. Constantine was at a loss to know what to make of this singular remark. In any case Poirot gave him no time for questions. Opening the door into the corridor, he called for the conductor.

The man arrived at a run.

“How many women are there in this coach?”

The conductor counted on his fingers.

“One, two, three – six, Monsieur. The old American lady, a Swedish lady, the young English lady, the Countess Andrenyi, and Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff and her maid.”

Poirot considered.

“They all have hat-boxes, yes?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Then bring me – let me see – yes, the Swedish lady’s and that of the lady’s-maid. Those two are the only hope. You will tell them it is a customs regulation – something – anything that occurs to you.”

“That will be all right, Monsieur. Neither lady is in her compartment at the moment.”

“Then be quick.”

The conductor departed. He returned with the two hatboxes. Poirot opened that of the maid, and tossed it aside. Then he opened the Swedish lady’s and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Removing the hats carefully, he disclosed round humps of wire-netting.

“Ah, here is what we need! About fifteen years ago hat-boxes were made like this. You skewered through the hat with a hatpin on to this hump of wire-netting.”

As he spoke he was skillfully removing two of the attached humps. Then he repacked the hat-box and told the conductor to return both boxes where they belonged.

When the door was shut once more he turned to his companion.

“See you, my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash. But in this case I would welcome a little scientific assistance. This compartment is full of clues, but can I be sure that those clues are really what they seem to be?”

“I do not quite understand you, M. Poirot.”

“Well, to give you an example – we find a woman’s handkerchief. Did a woman drop it? Or did a man, committing the crime, say to himself: ‘I will make this look like a woman’s crime. I will stab my enemy an unnecessary number of times, making some of the blows feeble and ineffective, and I will drop this handkerchief where no one can miss it’? That is one possibility. Then there is another. Did a woman kill him, and did she deliberately drop a pipe-cleaner to make it look like a man’s work? Or are we seriously to suppose that two people, a man and a woman, were separately concerned, and that each was so careless as to drop a clue to his or her identity? It is a little too much of a coincidence, that!”